as profited.
"Now you're being a good little General Practitioner." And then, the
ages having elapsed with some alacrity, the door opens and the two
subjects of discussion make their appearance.

The anomalous cousin did not come with them, having subsided. Mrs.
Fenwick herself had taken the pianoforte parts lately. She had always
been a fair pianist, and application had made her passable--a good
make-shift, anyhow. So you may fill out the programme to your
liking--it really doesn't matter what they played--and consider that
this musical evening was one of their best that season. It was just
as well it should be so, as it was their last till the autumn. Sally
and her mother were going to the seaside all August and some of
September, and Fenwick was coming with them for a week at first,
and after that for short week-end spells. He had become a partner
in the wine-business, and was not so much tied to the desk.

* * * * *

"Well, then, it's good-bye, I suppose?" The speaker is Rosalind
herself, as the Stradivarius is being put to bed. But she hasn't the
heart to let the verdict stand--at least, as far as the doctor is
concerned. She softens it, adds a recommendation to mercy. "Unless
you'll come down and pay us a visit. We'll put you up somewhere."

"I'm afraid it isn't possible," is the answer. But the doctor can't
get his eyes really off Sally. Even as a small boy might strain at
the leash to get back to a source of cake against the grasp of an iron
nurse, even so Dr. Conrad rebels against the grip of professional
engagements, which is the name of his cold, remorseless tyrant.
But Sally is harnessing up a coach-and-six to drive through human
obligations. Her manner of addressing the doctor suggests previous
talk on the subject.

"You _must_ get the locum, and come. You know you can, and it's all
nonsense about can't." What would be effrontery in another character
makes Sally speak through and across the company. A secret confidence
between herself and the doctor, that you are welcome to the full
knowledge of, and be hanged to you! is what the manner of the two
implies.

"I spoke to Neckitt about it, and he can't manage it," says the
doctor in the same manner. But the first and second violin are waiting
to take leave.

"We'll say good-night, then--or good-bye, if it's for six weeks."
Tishy is perfectly unblushing about the _we_. She might be conveying
Mr. Tishy away. They go, and